Trophies: a gripping detective thriller (The Wakefield Series Book 1)

by David Evans

  “Thanks for taking this up,” Summers said.

  “Look, I don’t want to get your hopes up, but at the moment, I haven’t actually ‘taken this up’, as you put it. I’m just exploring possibilities, shall we say.”

  “No, I appreciate that but you must understand, I have absolute faith in my brother’s innocence and I’m determined to see that the injustice of his situation is put right.”

  “All right, Don, why don’t you tell me a bit about your brother. Paul, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Well, he’s nine years younger than me so, growing up, he was never in my circle of school friends. When you’re fourteen or fifteen, a five or six year-old is more of a pain than anything else. Anyway, I got married and left home in 1970. Paul, obviously, was still at home – he was twelve. To all intents and purposes, he became an only child. With our age difference, I suppose he probably felt he always was. He was a sensitive lad and sometimes people confused that with him being a bit slow. He wasn’t, though, and did all right at school.”

  Souter pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Summers which he declined with a slight shake of the head. “Sorry,” Souter said. “Do you mind if I do?”

  “No, you carry on.”

  Souter lit up and Summers watched, giving him the impression that he’d once been a smoker. “You were saying,” Souter encouraged.

  “In 1975, when Paul was seventeen, Mum and Dad were killed in a car smash on the M1. A lorry crossed the central reservation and ploughed into them head on.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the return of the waitress. “One cappuccino and one tea,” she said in a loud expressionless voice, then set them down heavily on the table in front of them. Summers was about to mutter a word of thanks but decided against it when she strode off.

  “A girl not entirely happy in her work,” Souter commented.

  Summers grinned. “A lot of them about, I’m afraid.” He paused a moment before resuming his story. “Paul took it badly. Not that there’s ever a good time for a tragedy like that to happen but, for a lad of that age … just maturing … just starting to forge adult relationships, especially with Dad, it was hard. He seemed to go into a shell. He decided he still wanted to live in the house. It was the small semi-detached we’d been brought up in, over on Ramsbottom Avenue, if you know it?”

  Souter shook his head and took a sip of his tea.

  “Technically, it was left jointly to the both of us but Sarah, my wife, and I had been in a place of our own for the previous five years, so I let him stay – you know, didn’t force him to sell. He’d started work the previous summer, so he’d begun to learn the basic economics of life and anyway, in my line of work, I kept an eye on things for him.” Summers added some sugar to his coffee and watched it sink through the milk froth. He stirred it underneath the creamy layer then sampled it before carrying on. “He also found it difficult to talk to women, girls really. He never had a girlfriend, as far as I knew.”

  “So how did that impact on what happened?”

  “Well, if you don’t know the area where he lived, the two semi’s, ours and the old lady’s next door, Mrs. Reynolds - she was bad with arthritis and used to sleep in the room downstairs - they were at the end of the cul-de-sac. Now, on the street behind, there was a bit of a tarty piece by the name of Valerie Tattersall. Her old man, Dennis, used to work shifts on the railway in those days and Valerie used to, shall we say, sometimes indulge in a little late night entertainment with one or two blokes when Dennis was on nights. The other thing was that some would say she was a little indiscreet at times. Personally, I thought she was an exhibitionist because she’d leave the curtains open.”

  Souter laughed. “Sounds like she was every pubescent lad’s dream.”

  “Exactly. And Paul, being at the age when his hormones were working overtime, soon spotted her little floorshows. I also think she used to enjoy the fact that he could watch. Even if she wasn’t entertaining someone, she’d parade around in all her gear and give Paul, in his bedroom opposite, a free show. Paul, meantime, used to indulge in a little exhibitionism of his own. Sometimes, he used to … well, you know … shall we say, relieve his frustrations himself. Valerie obviously used to enjoy seeing this as well because this arrangement went on for some weeks.”

  Summers looked around and leaned forward, concerned his tale was being overheard. “Then, one night, Dennis came home unexpectedly, some cock-up on his shift or whatever. Anyway, he walks in on Valerie who’s in the bedroom, fortunately for her, on her own, but in the Janet Raeger gear with the curtains open.”

  “So let me guess … either Dennis thinks his luck’s in or he’s suspicious and starts knocking her about?”

  “Neither. Paul doesn’t recognise Dennis, thinks he’s another of Valerie’s diversions and poor sod’s standing there in his bedroom window all proud and erect, so to speak, when Dennis catches sight. He goes ballistic, threatens to go round there and sort him out. Valerie, meanwhile, cracks on that she’s only just spotted him and eventually manages to calm Dennis down, persuading him that the police would be the best way of dealing with the situation.”

  “So that’s how he ended up with a conviction for indecent exposure,” Souter pondered, stubbing out his cigarette.

  “That was it. But it wasn’t his fault entirely. I know he was a bit stupid but she had more to do with it than he did, leading him on like that. Anyway, she got her comeuppance about six months later. Dennis walked in on her again, only this time, she wasn’t on her own. Some bloke from two streets away that had told his wife he was working a late shift. I tell you, I don’t know if I could be bothered with all that subterfuge, just for a bit of illicit nooky.”

  Souter grinned. “So fast forward about twenty years and Paul gets rounded up in the hunt for Irene Nicholson’s attacker, because he has this previous conviction?”

  “That’s right. But unfortunately for him, he has no alibi. And that big bastard Cunningham wants an easy conviction and persuades the poor girl to identify Paul.”

  “Cunningham being the then DI Cunningham, now DCI.”

  “The very same.”

  “And Paul gets four years for indecent assault.”

  “Correct.”

  Souter took another drink of his tea and thought for a moment. “But that was back in ’97. Shouldn’t he have been out by now?”

  “That’s another bone of contention. Because he hasn’t admitted his guilt, he’s not eligible for parole.”

  “You’re right. That’s a good angle,” Souter said. “There are some high profile cases where murderers are still inside years after they should have been released because they still claim innocence. And, of course, if he comes out now with that conviction still standing, he’ll automatically go on the Sexual Offender’s Register, which, if you feel you were innocent in the first place, must seem as though your sentence will never end.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So why bring this up again now? Right at this moment?”

  “Well, the reason I contacted you at the weekend was that I’d heard that the case was being considered again. Something to do with this Williams murder.”

  Souter was intrigued. “How did you hear about this?”

  “I’ve always maintained some contacts with the police, unofficially shall we say.”

  “Listen, Don, I don’t want to piss on your chips, if you know what I mean, but from time to time situations crop up that means they reconsider old cases, looking for some previous similarities, see if lessons can be learned from how the enquiry was run, but that doesn’t mean they necessarily think they’d got it wrong.”

  “I know that. And I know the rumours of improper behaviour between Cunningham and that female detective he was always with have got nothing to do with it either.” Summers drained his coffee. “But there’s something else.”

  “Go on.”
/>
  “Someone contacted me last night.”

  “And?”

  “They said there had been a discovery. A silver chain belonging to the girl, Irene Nicholson.”

  Souter moved forward to the edge of his seat. “Did they say where?”

  “In the flat where they found this Williams character.”

  “You said ‘he’. Was this caller one of your usual connections?”

  “No. He didn’t say who he was. His voice sounded muffled.”

  Souter appeared deep in thought.

  “So, now are you interested?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Souter, “You have my undivided.”

  31

  “Hello, Son. Come in.”

  “Sorry, Dad, I’m not interrupting anything am I?” Colin Strong stepped into the hallway of his father’s bungalow in Doncaster.

  “I was thinking of going to Belle Vue tonight but they’re only playing Kidderminster.” Jim led the way into the small sitting room.

  “Look, if you still want to go, we can leave it for now.”

  “No, that’s all right. It’s changed days since Rovers dropped out of the league anyway. Do you know, I remember over eight thousand turning up one Friday night for a third division game with Huddersfield back in the Seventies. I don’t expect I’ll see that again. No, come and sit down. You’ve obviously got something on your mind.”

  Colin smiled and sat down.

  Jim made his way through to the kitchen and shouted back to him, “Fancy a beer?”

  “Go on, then. Thanks, Dad.”

  When he returned, Colin took the two A3 photocopied sheets of the article the Newspaper Library had sent him from their brown envelope and spread them out on the coffee table. Just as Jim had remembered, there was a summary of the Ripper enquiry, complete with a table of all the attacks listing the victims, dates and places, the gap in days between, the various injuries, whether there was sexual activity, items stolen, as well as what clues were discovered at the various scenes.

  “Remember this?”

  Jim removed his reading glasses from their case, put them on and studied the document. “Where did you get this?”

  “British Library’s Newspaper section down in London sent it to me late this afternoon. I haven’t had a chance to study it in any detail. I thought we’d have a look at it now.”

  “Maybe it’s my memory but I seem to recall this table was spread over two pages of the paper, whereas here it’s only one. This is probably the southern edition,” Jim suggested.

  Colin sat back on the settee letting his father read the article. “I know twenty-twenty hindsight is fairly infallible but, after all these years, I’d be interested in your opinion first, Dad.”

  Jim began to read it through, as Colin enjoyed his beer. After about ten minutes, Jim removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “As you say, Son, knowing what we know now, it’s all too clear. The Carlisle murder was the key to all that wasted effort. Even here, they’d flagged up that she was the only victim he’d had sex with.”

  Colin said nothing, allowing Jim to continue with his train of thought.

  “But let’s look beyond that fact. What else does the table show? As far as location is concerned, all other attacks took place in West Yorkshire or Manchester. Carlisle could be considered out of area. There were three attacks where the victim wasn’t stabbed – one in Leeds where the girl survived, perhaps because he was disturbed, one in Bradford and, again, Carlisle.” Jim reviewed the table again. “Maybe this isn’t so relevant but here they mention that in some of the attacks, items were stolen, three of them, Leeds, Manchester and Huddersfield it was cash, although in the case of the Manchester victim, he’d left that brand new five pound note, remember that? The other case was Carlisle but it wasn’t cash that was taken but a watch and items of jewellery.”

  “What!” Colin sat upright. “Let me see that.”

  The speed of his movement to study the photocopies surprised his father. “What is it? What’s so relevant about that?”

  Colin put up a hand to indicate patience from Jim. “I wonder …” was all he muttered.

  It was Jim’s turn to relax back into the settee. “I get it. You’ve discovered something that may well be one or all of those missing items, am I right?”

  “Maybe, maybe. Thanks for that, Dad. Always good to have your analytical input on things.”

  Jim beamed. “As long as I’ve still got some uses.”

  “Of course. Now, if you still want – we’ve got time – we could both go and see that game?”

  32

  As Strong parked up next morning in the Wood Street car park, his mobile rang. He recognised the number. “Bob, what news?”

  “I had a very interesting meeting with Donald Summers yesterday.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Apart from the entertaining tale of how his brother, Paul, acquired a criminal record in the first place, he mentioned some other curious things.” Souter seemed to pause for effect.

  “I assume you’re going to share those with me, otherwise this phone call’s a waste of time.”

  “Well, this might be a wee bit delicate …”

  “So when have you ever held back to spare anyone’s feelings, let alone mine?”

  “What do you know of your boss’s peccadilloes?”

  “Cunningham? What are you getting at?” Strong grew serious.

  “Word is he was nobbing that DC who suddenly got a posting to the Met just after Paul Summers was convicted.”

  “You mean WDC Sharp?”

  “Kathy Sharp, that’s her. So what are the rumours there? Was it true?”

  Strong hesitated for a few seconds, while he considered Souter’s information. “I must admit, I haven’t heard that specifically but they did appear close. Mind, I was seconded to Leeds at that time. I’ll see what the word is here but that was three years ago.”

  “I’ll await the result of your enquiries,” Souter said.

  “In the meantime, you can do something for me.”

  “Go on.”

  “Back in ’75, there was a murder in Carlisle that was initially included in the Ripper’s repertoire. Can you see what the local paper had to say on that? I believe there were some items missing from the victim when she was found. I don’t want to go through official channels just yet – see what you can dig up for me.”

  “Okay, leave that with me.”

  “By the way, how are you settling in with Jean?”

  “It’ll probably do for a week or two but I get the feeling I’m in the way.”

  “How come? I thought you two got on all right.”

  “We do. Thing is, I think she’s got a new bloke in her life.”

  “Really? Well good for her. Let’s hope he’s a bit more genuine than the erstwhile Trevor.”

  “Did you say the arsehole Trevor?”

  Strong laughed. “That’s the one.”

  “The thing is, I don’t know anything about this one. She’s keeping him under wraps. Probably afraid I’ll embarrass her.”

  “Don’t blame her, Bob.”

  Kelly Stainmore’s car drew to a halt in the space next to him. He raised his hand to acknowledge her.

  “Anyway, got to go. Keep in touch.”

  Strong and Stainmore got out of their cars simultaneously. “Morning, Kelly,” he said, cheerily. “How are you getting on with tracking down our victims?”

  “Two steps forward and one back, guv. Should have known after successes with the last two that I’d hit a brick wall.”

  Before Strong could follow up on her comments, John Darby came racing in on foot through the car park gates looking decidedly dishevelled. “Mornin’ all,” he said, reducing his pace to a normal stride. “Sorry I’m a bit late.”

  “Good God, John, you look like a bag of shit. What have you been up to? Late night was it?”

  “Somethin’ like that, guv.”

/>   “Go get yourself tidied up.” Strong held the door to the building open for Darby and Stainmore. “And get a shave as well!”

  Stainmore and Strong just looked at one another, stifling a laugh, as Darby disappeared up the staircase. “What’s up with him these days?” Strong asked, more of himself than Stainmore. “That’s the second time recently he’s dashed in looking like he’s never been home.”

  “Probably hasn’t.”

  “Anyway, you were about to tell me your problems.”

  “Oh yes, well, Tracy Elliott, the Doncaster prostitute, seems to have disappeared. Not known at the last given address. One of the girls thinks she headed for London not long after she was attacked.”

  “No parents or other relatives?” Strong wondered, as Stainmore paused to collect a coffee from the drinks machine.

  “Orphaned, I believe. Brought up in a series of homes.”

  “Might be worth a call to the Met’s vice squad.” Strong shook his head in response to Stainmore’s offer of a hot drink. “See if they know her, otherwise probably not worth wasting too much time on it. What about the other one?”

  “Ilana Vaughan took off with her boyfriend about six months ago to travel the world. Last known location, Peru. Don’t suppose expenses would …?” Stainmore said, putting on her best wide-eyed and innocent look.

  “I wouldn’t even count on getting them back for your trip to Doncaster.”

  Strong moved the conversation on as they made their way along the first floor corridor. “Did you get any info out of Frank Carr yesterday?”

  “He turned up late in the afternoon and showed me some paperwork that was supposed to demonstrate that Williams had paid back seven hundred pounds over the course of six months last year for his five hundred loan.”

  “You weren’t convinced?”

  “Well, anyone could fabricate notes to show anything … but, the fact is, for now, there’s no evidence of any involvement by Carr in Williams’ death.

  “There was one other thing, though, he admitted that Kenny Stocks has borrowed money in the past but he’s got no current arrangements with him.”